


where the hawk hangs still

by kyrilu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Manipulation, Obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History repeats itself. History changes. This isn't the first time an orderly and a convict talk about birds late into the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the hawk hangs still

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically sort-of-drabbling out my Matthew/Will feelings here. 
> 
> Contains some references to the other Hannibal books/movies because I can't help myself.

History repeats itself. History changes. This isn’t the last time an orderly and a convict talk about birds late into the night, but these birds aren’t pigeons - not at all.

(The function is the same. They end up falling asleep to his voice, like they can hear the promise hidden within the metaphor.)

 

* * *

 

 “I like to break mirrors,” Matthew says casually, seemingly apropos of nothing. “I don’t like them, y’know?” He looks at Will. “Tell me, Mr. Graham. Why don’t I like mirrors?”

Will’s hands are folded in a steeple underneath his chin. He slowly opens his eyes, unsteeples his fingers, and tells the truth. He says, “You think you’re ugly. You don’t like looking at your mouth, knowing that there’s still a trace of a lisp left behind. You think that mirrors will show you that you’re missing pieces.”

Matthew smiles. He kneels, so that he’s directly across from Will, who’s sitting on the cold stone floor with crossed legs. “Got it in one,” he breathes.

Will thinks he can feel the breath reverberate through his body, settling through him like smoke from a fire.

Then Matthew says, “Mr. Graham, you’re the only mirror that I don’t want to break,” and Will _shivers._

 

* * *

 

This isn’t, strictly speaking, Will’s game. This is Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s game, playing at some sort of god, playing at gentle touches and words.

But he plays it anyway.

He wakes up from a dream and finds Matthew’s hand tangled in his hair, stroking disheveled curls like they’re bird feathers.

“What did you dream of?” Matthew says, softly, because he knows that look in Will’s eyes, the one that means that he’s been far away, retreated in his imagination.

Will doesn’t reply at once, because he doesn’t remember everything. All he remembers is a vicious thrill shuddering through his body. Closing around him. Waiting at his feet. A whisper of: “Blood, y'know, looks black in the moonlight.”

He lets Matthew touch him. Just for a few more moments. Matthew. _Matthew._ Dr. Lecter had called him Will’s acolyte; he had said, _love_ …

“You,” he says, finally. “You, I think.”

He lets himself disappear into the warmth of Matthew’s arms. He can hear his heartbeat, like the roar of a furnace, of an inferno.

 

* * *

 

Their fingers thread together through the bars. Matthew’s fingers close around his wrists, as if they’re miming the handcuffs he had just removed, minutes earlier.

Will says quietly, “I’m not who you think I am.”

He is not like Hannibal Lecter, at least not yet. He is not a hawk, just a bird in a cage, a bird who wants fish, and flight, and vengeance.

Matthew shakes his head. “No.”

Just one word: No. Matthew Brown has always found him beautiful. Matthew Brown brings Will’s fingers to his mouth, and it feels like worship.


End file.
